


One-Sided Chess

by thinlizzy2



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Jaime Lannister/Cersei Lannister (past) - Freeform, Post-Canon, Queen Daenerys, Queen Sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:52:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7270900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/pseuds/thinlizzy2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even though the great game is over, some people are just born to play.</p><p>After the war, Sansa rules and Brienne serves.  Cersei... does something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One-Sided Chess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spookykingdomstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/gifts).



Cersei opens her eyes to the sounds of birdsong through the windows and the light streaming red through her curtains. For just a moment, it looks like the bed is drenched in blood. But then her eyes adapt, and it is just another morning. Just another day beginning in her bedchamber in Casterly Rock. She shuts her eyes again, and wonders if she might not have preferred the blood. At the very least, it would have been something different.

Then she remembers. Today _will_ bring one break from her usual routine of walks around the grounds, creeping boredom and a slide into her wine goblet that is nowhere near as slow and deliberate as it used to be. She should curtail her consumption and she knows it and she won’t. And the fact that this is only rebellion left to her is enough to make her weep with anger. 

Or it would be, but that woman will be here soon, and Cersei refuses to let her see her with red and swollen eyes.

Instead, she climbs out of bed and calls for her servants. They come in what would be considered appropriate time to most people. But Cersei was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms once, and she is accustomed to the very best. And, fortunately or unfortunately, it appears that one does not simply become unused to such things over time.

She makes her displeasure clear through the tone of her voice, the green ice in her eyes as she orders her bath, gowns and breakfast. The fat and lazy little mice make a show of squeaking and scurrying to do her bidding, but she feels no joy in her victory over them.

After all, they do not matter. She so rarely deals with people who do matter, these days. Maybe that’s why, in spite of herself, she will still make an effort today.

She is dressed, groomed, powdered and scented in plenty of time. Now there is nothing to do but wait, and that frustrates her. 

Once, other people had waited for her. That had been far preferable.

The sun is directly overhead when the Captain of the Queensguard rides through the gates. She rides well; Cersei can admit that to herself. She sits comfortably in the saddle and the darkness of her armour against the bright golden hilt of her sword is impressive. On horseback, from a distance and with her little squire in rapt attendance, Brienne of Tarth is almost handsome.

The illusion will be shattered in a moment when they are face to face and Cersei is glad of it.

Indeed after Brienne has bowed to her and Cersei has given her the most precursory of curtsies, the knight is as ugly as ever. But Cersei takes note of a different change without meaning to. Many of Cersei's old titles have been stripped away from her, but she is a mother still, even with her children long gone. And her nose is sharp and this particular scent is unmistakable. Beneath her armour, Brienne is leaking milk.

It is just another hurt. Cersei refuses to flinch. She absorbs it without a sign.

Her own moon’s blood has stopped for good now. She was surprised to find that she doesn’t mind that. But that does not mean that she would allow other women their fertility, if given a choice.

“Lady Cersei, I bring you greetings from Sansa, Queen of the North. She is pleased to be able to send me to ensure that your needs are met and that you are comfortable here.”

It is the same speech as always. Cersei imagines that the Stark girl makes Brienne practice it before sending her off to Cersei, ensuring that that she gives away no hint of nervousness or pity. She gives her own pat answer in return.

“I thank Queen Sansa for her concern, and assure her that I am well and safe.” It is certainly true. Cersei is as safe as she can possibly be, locked up within her ancestral walls. And she is well, horrifically well. As it stands, she could very possibly survive decades more of her luxurious captivity.

It does not bear thinking about.

Instead, she waves the anxious young squire towards the stable and steers Brienne towards her garden. She is pleased to see that her instructions have been followed exactly. The table has been set with the finest delicacies her kitchen has to offer; the charming little cakes will look comically tiny in Brienne’s big mannish hands. Even the chairs are too small for her; once she is seated the captain of the Queensguard looks like a nurse playing tea party with her young charges. Cersei allows herself a small smile.

“Tell me of Winterfell.” She commands here, not asks, and it will be good for Brienne to remember that. “Is it beginning to look more like a royal court?”

Brienne meets her gaze. “It’s not like King’s Landing used to be.” Cersei remembers, shudders. _Used to be._ “But I have a great fondness for the place, and it has been much improved since the coronation. The Queen of the South recently brought some beautiful carpets as gifts.

The Queen of the South. Cersei cannot help but smirk. Daenerys and Sansa had divided Westeros among themselves like little girls in a orchard with a basket of plums – one for you and one for me. And what did they get from it? Sansa at Winterfell and Daenerys at Highgarden and the sense of piecemeal that permeates everything. Cersei may have lost almost everything. But she had been the last true Queen of Westeros – no matter how short or disastrous her final reign – and that is worth something.

It is.

She beams into Brienne’s face, knowing how a smile can feel like a slap. “How delightful. And my brother? Is he well?” That sounds almost casual; she is proud of herself.

“Lord Tyrion accompanied Queen Daenerys on her visit. He seems quite happy to be sitting on her council and fulfilled by the work she gives him.”

Like Cersei could possibly be asking about Tyrion! So she would have to say the name then. That was cleverer than she expected from the Lady of Tarth; perhaps living so closely with a Lannister has improved her after all. “I’m so pleased to hear it. And how is Jaime?” She adds a sensual little purr to the two syllables and makes the name her own again, even if only for a moment.

Colour spreads across Brienne’s cheeks and she dips her face to pour water into her wine. “Well, Lady Cersei. Well indeed.”

“Do tell him I asked after him, won’t you?”

“I will.”

Would she? Cersei actually has no idea. She cannot predict the way Brienne’s thoughts work, this stupidly honourable creature. Would her desire to spare Jaime discomfort force her to lie to Cersei? Is she even capable of lying? Cersei doesn’t know. 

And it may be worthwhile to find out.

“I would like very much to see him again. I’m not sure if he ever told you, but we used to be quite close.” She watches Brienne carefully. “Perhaps I could ride back with you to Winterfell, for a short visit. My horses would be glad of the exercise.”

Brienne took a deep swallow and Cersei wondered if she regretted watering her wine now. “I don’t have the authority to approve you leaving here, my Lady.”

So that was another thing that had been diluted under the new rule: the power of the Captain of the Guard.

“Well then, perhaps Jaime could come here next time instead of you.” The fact that Jaime apparently swore an oath to the Stark girl even before talk of crowning her had begun still makes Cersei seethe, but if the lion is going to enslave himself to the wolf then she should at least get something for it. She almost adds _Surely you would rather stay with your babe_ but something holds her back. 

It would be an indisputable point, but still. If she says it, it will be real.

“Queen Sansa has specifically asked that I be the one to visit you. If you would prefer another, I can take that request to her. But when our… situation was decided upon, she made it quite clear that it would be me who would ultimately be responsible for securing your safety and loyalty. Not your brother.”

Cersei is suddenly afraid to ask the next question. She faces down that fear, as she has so many others. “Did Jaime object?”

Brienne meets her eyes. “No, my Lady.” And her voice is _kind_ and that hurts almost as much as anything. Kindness is a charity, and if Brienne of Tarth has such alms to spare then it is certain that Jaime most definitely made no protest. Perhaps - even probably? - the opposite is true. Their separation may very well be Jaime's will as much as Sansa's.

“I see.” And Cersei will not cry in front of this creature. She _will not_. She is a Lannister of Casterly Rock. She is the last Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and she will shed no tears for Brienne of Tarth to take home to her undergrown queen and traitorous lover. She forces her voice to be steady. “Then we will continue as is. The ceiling in the eastern bedroom seems to have developed a leak. It’s getting worse as it gets warmer.”

“It’s the melting snow. Spring is coming.”

Cersei has nothing to say to that so she merely nods.

“I’ll have Podrick take a look at it. He’s good with his hands. If he can’t manage it I’ll ask Her Grace to send workmen.” 

“Thank you.” The courtesy is a weapon, but she still longs for something sharper.

“Is there anything else?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” Except that Cersei is exhausted. With this conversation, with her life, with all of it. Even that is hardly extraordinary, except that she is willing to admit it to herself. “So just go about your business. Check the walls, oil the locks, pay the guards far more than I could ever hope to bribe them with. And then be on your way. I’ll see you in a year’s time.” 

Brienne nods and stands up, obviously glad to be free of the tiny chair. “We will try to be as brief as possible, Lady Cersei. And I apologise for the intrusion into your routine. I know this… cannot be easy.”

Nothing about Cersei's life is easy now, neither her routine nor the distraction from it. “I shall try to stay out of your way while you are visiting, so as not to impede your work.”

Brienne gives a slight bow of thanks. “Where shall we sleep, while we are here?” 

Cersei is tempted to send her to the eastern bedroom, but there is no point in such petty manipulations and the truth is that she has known that for a while. “I’ve had quarters prepared.”

“Thank you, my Lady.”

And the yearly ritual is done, yet again. Cersei will take to her bed with a headache for the next couple of days, give Brienne and her squire a brief farewell at the gates and then life will go on, an unbroken line heading towards more of the same next year, until the Stranger finally comes to break it.

And yet something compels her to rise to her feet, to call out and stop Brienne before she leaves the room. “Lady Brienne?” What is the harm, really, in knowing? It can hardly hurt her now. “Boy or girl?”

A look of surprise crosses the knight’s face. It is followed by a slow smile. Her teeth are crooked and broken, and yet somehow the smile improves her. “A girl, Lady Cersei. Nearly five moons old. Healthy and strong, thank the Mother.”

So she had carried the babe in her belly the last time she was here. Cersei wonders if she had known it then. If her milk has continued to flow for five moons then she must be nursing the child herself. Cersei had done that too. Everyone had been surprised, but she hadn't cared. She remembers those hungry little mouths, seeking her out. The latch of warm lips on her nipples and the sweet relief as they took their sustenance from her. This is probably the first time Brienne has had to leave her daughter with a wet nurse. Cersei wonders if it pains her.

She hopes so much that it does.

A girl, poor thing. Though perhaps that’s not the curse it used to be, in this age of Queens. “Her name?”

“Catelyn.” 

Of course it is. “Ah. Catelyn Snow. It has a good sound to it.”

But Brienne shakes her head. “No, my Lady. Catelyn Lannister.”

And Cersei’s knees go weak.

So, the Lannister line continues after all. Not only was she not the one to extend it; she will not even be the one to end it.

It is terrifying to think that this may not even be her home any more. Depending on how Brienne and Jaime formed their plans, their child may be the new heir to Casterly Rock. And no matter how much she has come to hate it here, she cannot help the flash of terror at the idea of losing what little she has left.

She does not know how they arranged it. Perhaps Jaime had the child legitimized or possibly the Stark girl did it as a gift to her Captain. It is even possible that they were granted permission to marry. Even in her isolated home, Cersei has heard how Jaime is besotted with this most unlikely of women and how Sansa is generous with her gratitude to those who helped her when she was more little lost lamb than wolf. It is fully possible that Brienne is Lady Lannister now and Cersei is even less than she was before. Anything can happen in this time of miracles. 

Including the tiny curl of curiosity still twisting in her chest. In spite of herself, she cannot help but ask one more question. “Who does she take after, your daughter? Who does she look like?”

That smile comes again. “Jaime. She greatly resembles Jaime.”

Cersei could be cruel here; she could sigh with relief and ask Brienne to take her congratulations to her most fortunate daughter. But, in the moment, such actions do not occur to her. Instead she is distracted by the most unexpected wave of sensations that suddenly crashes over her.

No, not sensations. Memories.

She can picture this Catelyn in her head; she knows what Jaime's golden, green-eyed children look like. By the Seven, she knows how they feel in her arms, the weight of them as they fall asleep after suckling, what the tops of their heads smell like, what they look like dead. “Me, then.” The words are out of her mouth before she knows she is thinking them. “She must also resemble me.”

Brienne cocks her head, considering it for perhaps the first time. “I suppose she does, Lady Cersei.”

Cersei sits back down. The chair is small, but it fits her perfectly. It is a comfortable seat; why has she never noticed that before? Was she meant to notice? Is that why she has resisted? She shifts, forcing herself forward so that the hard edge digs into the back of her thighs. “Enjoy your stay, Lady Brienne.”

One more awkward bow, and she is gone.

Cersei draws a deep breath. She surveys the table, delicate sweets and watery wine. She reaches for the flask of Dornish Red and pours herself a fresh glass. Toasting someone who isn’t there, she drinks deeply.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spookykingdomstarlight for Every Woman 2016. I was really intrigued that you asked for Cersei to be seen through a sympathetic lens. I've tried to present her that way here, while still retaining some of her edge. I hope you're happy with the results!


End file.
